“Son of a bitch!”
26
Early Thursday morning. East Lake Road. Town of Varick. Seneca County, N.Y.
YANKING HIS HAND back in excruciating pain, the large man clenched his smoke-stained yellow teeth. A muffled obscenity spilled from his mouth. The fresh steak he used as a lure dropped on the grass. He also lost the grip on his mini-flashlight. It too fumbled to the ground. Stumbling backward against the dog pound fence, the man clutched his latex-gloved hand. Blood streamed out of the missing tip of his middle finger.
A white-haired West Highland terrier entered the dropped flashlight beam, showed its bloody teeth, and emitted a low growl from its muzzle. It then spit out the man’s fleshy extreme fingertip, latex still wrapped tightly around it. In a fit of rage, the heavy-set man kicked the dog hard in the mouth. The dog flipped upside down, but immediately got up whimpering and moped back into the flashlight beam, refusing to give ground. It growled again and showed its teeth, taunting the larger man for more. As the man drew back for another kick, the dog emitted a terrifying high-pitched bark.
A light immediately turned on in the main house, not twenty feet away. Several more dogs, roused from their sleep inside, joined in with responsive barks of their own. They soon exited the dog doors from the house and entered the run to back up their pack leader.
The wounded man took a last look at the lead terrier knowing his second dognapping of the place had failed. He should have known better than to return to the scene of his first crime. As he scrambled out of the gate to make his escape, the small dog, still standing in the beam of light, began to howl in victory.
Same time. Tonawanda Reservation.
Jake gave one last sweep of the clan mother’s property with his night scope and rifle. He figured either Kenny Rousseau would return to finish the hit or a cop car would show up from all the gunshots fired. But nothing had stirred for the last ten minutes. The night remained black, quiet and depressing.
Satisfied, he re-entered the house to discuss their next moves. Joe swept glass shards near the window while Miss Lizzie paced back and forth across the living room. She spoke out loud in an ancient Iroquois tongue. She bowed her head and mumbled her emotions, but at times she threw her hands in the air and shook her fists violently at the unseen Great Spirit.
Jake approached his uncle and whispered in his ear. “We need to do something with these bodies. We can’t go to the police. They won’t see this as an act of self-defense from a home invasion. They’ll see my connection with Nero and that the keg was dug up. We are in this as deep as Ashland was. They’ll put us all away for murder.”
Joe’s voice cracked with fear. “And if anyone on the reservation finds out, well, loose lips sink ships.”
“Right.”
“Do you think Rousseau will come back?”
“I’m not sure,” Jake whispered. “He retrieved what Nero wanted him to, but he knows we have firepower and we shoot back to kill. I think I wounded him but not sure. He’s outnumbered as far as I know. So, my bet is he won’t, but still I’m not going to chance it. We’ve got to get Lizzie out of here and into a safe house and we’ve got to get rid of those bodies.”
“I know. I know,” said Joe, his hands shaking. “I’m just trying to think where we can take them. Hell, I’ve never done this before. What are we going to do with them? Bury them, sink them, hide them, burn them?”
Lizzie’s pacing stopped. Both men looked over to the clan elder. On the rocking chair, Choo-Choo even perked up. Lizzie parted her fine white hair and exposed her red face. She scowled at the men with fiery eyes.
“Robert Jake Tununda,” she rasped and pointed. “You are now a guardian of the White Deer Society whether you like it or not! Nero will soon be in possession of the last clues to the cave entrance. We are now in the final race to find the almighty Crown of Serpents. You must go to Kendaia tonight and head him off. If he finds the crown, he will unleash the powers of darkness and slavery and we will suffer beneath his boot.”
“But the bodies—”
“Shush!” Lizzie scolded. “I took their lives. I own their souls. This is my house, my responsibility. Big Bear and I will handle the bodies. You are much more valuable to us by finding the crown and securing it so Nero cannot possess it.”
Jake looked at his uncle. He received a reassuring nod.
“As you wish,” Jake promised. “Let me grab my stuff and I’ll hit the road to Kendaia. And remember, I was never here.”
27
Thursday morning. Varick Fire Station.
STATE POLICE INVESTIGATOR Rae Hart thought she’d kill three birds with one stone before meeting her so-called anonymous tipster in Ovid. The first, fix the hunger pains in her stomach. The second, check on the status of the emergency coordinator injured in the gravesite arson. The third, find an outstanding material witness related to that arson. And the perfect place to try and nail all three birds was this morning’s fundraising pancake breakfast just north of the Army Depot on Route 96A at the Varick Fire Station.
She pulled into the busy parking lot and stepped from her vehicle. She wore a black trench coat over a dark blue turtleneck sweater, jeans, and black leather boots. In the meeting hall, where breakfast was being served, she was greeted warmly by several of the firefighters in the serving line. She thanked them for their inquiries on how she was feeling after being shot, and was treated to a plate of pancakes and home fries, plus a cup of coffee. As she ate and chit-chatted with some local residents curious about her ordeal, her stomach responded kindly.
First bird stoned.
Afterward, she wandered down the hall, coffee cup in hand, and found the handlebar-mustached fire chief Chet Bailey sitting in his office. She immediately voiced her concern and inquired about the county emergency coordinator’s condition.
“I just heard from the doc this morning,” answered the chief, rising up to greet her. He motioned for her to sit down while he slipped on his reading glasses. She placed her coffee on the desk while he read from a notepad near his phone.
“Ed is actually going to pull out of this just fine. Let me see here, Doc said he’s got a busted shoulder, broken ribs, severe burns on his arm, and a bad knot on his head, but nothing life-threatening.” He looked up at Rae.
She breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m glad to hear that. I’m going up to Geneva today to pay him a visit.”
Bird number two stoned.
The chief asked how she was feeling. She gave him an explanation of the shooting, with credit to Major Tununda for helping her, and a comment that they were making good progress on finding the killer/cop shooter. He then asked if she had any suspects on the Indian grave arson.
“All kinds of good evidence, but no clear suspects yet and no motivation other than maybe an anti-Native American resentment.” Rae pursed her lips.
“Yeah, tensions are sky high about the sale of the Depot,” noted the Chief. “I hope people around here behave today. Word leaked out that it’s that casino guy Alex Nero who’s gonna be buying up the land.”
“Yep, heard the same,” said Rae. “It just chaffs my ass that he’ll literally be in our own backyard. We put all our patrols on alert. Sheriff’s department is helping us out too.” She pulled a note pad out of her trench coat pocket. Thumbing through her notes she found the name she was looking for.
“But listen, I want to ask you about one firefighter in particular who was on scene that morning—”
“Oh, lemme taking a wild guess — Tommy friggin’ Owens, right?”
The chief killed bird number three for her. “That would be the one,” she nodded.
“He treated our good Samaritan pretty goddamn crummy,” replied the chief, pushing his spectacles back up his nose. “I can see how you made the connection, but he better hope to high hell he’s got nothing to do with that arson or I’ll roast his ignorant, uneducated ass myself.”
“I stopped by his house twice and he hasn’t been home. Was wondering if you might kn
ow where I could find him.”
“Last I heard that boy lost his job when his daddy shut down their convenience store up in Seneca Falls. Now he’s delivering for Mark’s Pizzeria out of Ovid.”
“Well, I’ll just go ahead and get a pizza delivered to our Romulus station then,” Rae laughed. “See who shows up.”
“Better yet, I saw his daddy eating pancakes earlier, maybe he’s still out there. Can’t miss him. He’s bigger than me with gray hair and shitty teeth. I think he’s got a dark blue coat on if I’m not mistaken. Name is Tom Owens Senior.”
“Thanks Chief.”
“Listen,” Bailey continued, lowering his voice. “Tommy Junior specifically mentioned last week that his pop’s business shut down because all their customers started going to the Indian-owned gas stations for tax-free sales. His whole family has hated the Indian tribes for years. Blames the state for not enforcing the laws. So, watch your ass Rae. I mean it. There’s a number of people out here that do very, very stupid things out of unfounded fear and resentment.”
Rae stood up and grabbed her coffee. “I hear ya Chief. Thanks for the tip. I’ll go see if Senior’s still out there. You take care.”
“Alright now, you have a good one.”
Rae re-entered the meeting hall and gave a quick look around. She couldn’t help but miss the man fitting the chief’s description. He sat in the corner. She put on her friendly smile and walked over.
“Good morning. Tom Owens Senior?”
The man’s beady little eyes, barely visible behind overstuffed cheeks, looked Rae up and down. He set his fork down and spoke through a mouthful of pancakes. “Who’s asking?”
“I’m investigator Hart with the State Police.” She then paused to judge his reaction. He turned his eyes slightly downward and chewed his pancakes with a wet smacking sound. Definitely hiding something, she concluded. “I’m just wondering where your son Tommy is. I need to ask him a few questions.” She then observed his dark blue coat sleeve ripped at the elbow. The fabric seemed to match the patch taken from the swamp. Her heart jumped.
“Bout what?” asked Senior, belching defiantly.
Rae leaned down and came face to face with the grotesque man. She held his gaze. “About the arson and attempted murder of Ed McMann. That’s what?”
“You think my boy did that?” he asked loudly, spitting a little piece of food across the table.
Rae stood back up and crossed her arms. She noticed a hush fell over the meeting hall. “Tell me something Tom, how did you rip your coat sleeve?”
“Shoveling shit on the farm. It’s what I do for a living now that the fucking Indians put me out of business. Here, you wanna smell?” He stood up and extended his arm in provocation.
Rae didn’t bite. She just stood there and stared angrily at him.
“How dare you accuse my son. I’m done with this shit.” Senior slammed his chair aside and immediately made for the side exit door.
Rae realized she came on too strong — again. She pursued Tom outside to his vehicle and observed him entering a beat up, blue Chevy pick up truck. He drove passed her, leaned out his window, and shouted for her to leave his son alone. She wrote his plate number down and watched him speed off north on 96A. She jumped into her unmarked sedan and followed.
Allowing him plenty of distance during the tail, Rae placed a call to the E-911 dispatch for a background record check on both Tom Senior and Junior. A minute later, to her detriment, she found out both the father and son had clean records. She smacked the steering wheel. The torn coat and the hearsay anti-Indian rhetoric would be flimsy evidence anyway, she realized. Nothing a judge would base a search warrant of their house on.
Rae’s cell phone rang on her seat. She pulled over to take the call, letting Tom Senior disappear down the road.
“State Police. Hart.”
“Miss Hart? This is Alan Payton, the West Highland Terrier breeder over in Varick—”
“Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I think that son of a bitch who killed my dog in that arson was trying to take another one last night.”
“Is that right?”
“Yep, they got all riled up early this morning, barking and howling,” said Payton. “I thought maybe they just saw some deer or something. All were accounted for so we went back to bed.”
“Uh huh,” pondered Rae.
“But then after feeding this morning, my wife noticed blood on Horatio’s muzzle. He’s the pack leader. He did not have any cuts on him so we started looking around out in the run.”
“And?”
“And well my Horatio got the better of that bastard. Bit the tip of his finger off! I’ve got it sitting under the water bowl. Didn’t want to move it or anything. I also found a flashlight too. Left it alone as well.”
“Mr. Payton, I’ll be right over,” Rae said, realizing Tom Owens Senior could be ruled out. He had all of his fingers back at the pancake breakfast. “I’m going to call ahead for some deputies to secure the scene. You did good.”
“Thank you ma’am. See ya in a bit.”
In front of Alan Payton’s house Rae noticed a black Seneca County sheriff’s deputy patrol car had already responded. She recognized the patrol car’s ID number as that of the rookie and vet combo. Putting on the latex, she met the owner, who took her around back where the young rookie sheriff was standing in the dog run. She nodded to the thin mustached, small-framed deputy who stood next to an overturned stainless steel dog bowl. A short black flashlight, its beam long since faded, sat nearby.
The rookie nodded a greeting. “Investigator, I’ve secured the evidence just as you requested,” he smiled, pointing to the bowl and flashlight.
“Thanks deputy,” acknowledged Rae, noticing some unusual discoloration on the grass near his feet. “Just do me a favor and don’t move. I think there’s blood evidence near your shoe.”
The deputy looked down, realizing he had potentially compromised key evidence on the crime scene. Angered and embarrassed, he apologized to Rae.
Emphasizing the point, she asked where his partner Wyzinski was, knowing full well the vet wouldn’t have sent a rookie alone out on an important scene like this.
“Wyz called in sick with a bad case of the flu. Couldn’t get his big butt out of bed.” He smiled nervously.
“Heard there’s a strain going around,” agreed Rae. She picked up the dog bowl and inspected the fingertip. At first glance she noticed white discoloration, due to the death of the skin cells, but upon closer examination she realized the fingertip was wrapped in latex. The Cranberry Marsh arsonist also used latex — remnants of which were found burned at the scene. The tip seemed to be the first segment of the middle or even ring finger. It was just the pad of the finger behind the nail, but gave her enough of a fingerprint for the crime lab to hopefully make a match. She left it alone and placed the bowl back over for protection.
“Tell you what,” she suggested to the rookie. “How about you ease back slowly, get to your patrol car and start making some calls for me? Call doctor’s offices and hospitals, see if anyone came in with a finger injury as of last night.”
“Yes ma’am,” replied the deputy, looking down as he backed away from the run.
“And get Mr. Payton’s statement too,” she ordered.
“Sure.”
“And one more thing,” added Rae. The rookie stopped and looked up. “Have a patrol sent to Mark’s Pizzeria. See if the deliveryman, Tommy Owens Junior, is working. Find out if he lost a fingertip.”
“Will do.”
“If he did, arrest his ass.”
Rae then placed a call on her cell phone to activate the crime scene van. She slowly and methodically searched the dog run, finding more blood on the grass trailing away. She tracked the blood across the owner’s side yard over to the shoulder of the road where the blood ended at a set of wide truck tire tracks in the mud.
Same time. Three Bears Courthouses. Ovid, Seneca County, N.Y.
Arriving just south of the Depot in Ovid, a sleepy rural village once the original county seat before being moved north to Waterloo, Stanton drove up to the village’s main tourist attraction. On a small knoll sat three red brick, white-framed buildings built in similar architectural style, but varying dramatically in overall size. The largest building was on the left, the next one in the middle a bit smaller, while the tiniest sat on the right. Named the Three Bears Courthouses these buildings took on various functions and housed many organizations over the years. Today, the smallest courthouse housed a local Veterans of Foreign War branch, the middle courthouse a Rotary International and Lions Club, and the largest structure — freshly renovated — hosted the Seneca County Historical Society, which had just moved from Seneca Falls.
With briefcase in hand, a faded New York Yankees baseball cap over blonde upturned hair, Stanton quickly ascended the main steps of the Papa Bear courthouse and entered the historical society. The president of the organization, an overly zealous man in his late thirties, introduced himself as Danny Wood. He led her up to the private research room on the second floor.
Crown of Serpents Page 25